The Master PieceA Story by Cherrie Palmermy grandma's mixing bowl is what I choose to bring home, not pictures or treasures but a simple red bowl that held my childhood memories.
Previous Version This is a previous version of The Master Piece. The Master Piece Take three! My mind yells as again I rewrite this short little couplet. A gentle warm and revealing smile spreads across my face and colors my memory in bliss; as I gaze at the paltry little red mixing bowl, which is air drying in my sink. At forty-six plus years I have no memories that it did not have a place in the background. My mother washed it for my Grandma, as did my Aunt, my three cousins and myself. Watching her whip up a meal was truly an art form. She was a Christian woman, with simple speech and an honest measure for living. Not simple minded but her mind worked in a simple straight line. This line of thinking flavored her cooking but did not limit it's flavor. This mixing bowl was used in her cooking daily. With the passing of each meal it was washed and on most occasions it was washed more than once. She would don her pale yellow and white checked apron, like the conductor would don his cummerbund. Fortified with a wood spoon the symphony of smells and sounds would commence. Soft running water to rinse freshly harvested scallions and basil would drip in the colander, while freshly rendered bacon grease crackles in the skillet. Dried-out cornbread and biscuits found themselves tossed on the counter as green peppers, mushrooms and cheese were taken to the blade.
Her arms waved about like a grand orchestra stood at her attention. Just as if Benjamin Zander himself was there the harmony of time and space began. From out of thin air she pulled a cutting-board. Six slices of pepper bacon were crumbled into pieces while small pinches of bread crumbs and herbs made the mound of aromas drift higher. Braised veggies soaked in the smoky maple drippings only adding to the perfection of both smell and memory. Slivers of turkey were folded in and the mixing bowl dumped its loot into a casserole dish the sauce pan that contained a robust broth of turkey patiently waited to soak the thirty crumbs’ of bread and as I stare at my grandma’s bowl I begin to scamper through my kitchen, to satisfy my need to create another master piece. © 2011 Cherrie PalmerFeatured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
75 Views
12 Reviews Added on February 9, 2011 Last Updated on May 20, 2011 Previous Versions AuthorCherrie PalmerOakland, ARAboutI am a published poet and love poetry. I live near the White River, and love trout fishing. I find my surroundings a great inspiration to me. I also have two books on Amazon Kindle: Obsession Starts.. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|